Chili
by Mounty Swiss
Summary: A backstory for "Ironside", set before the pilot, after the flashback in 'Tom Dayton Is Loose among Us'. We learn a few details about Chief of Detectives Robert T. Ironside, a very green officer Brown... and about chili.
1. Chapter 1

**Chili**

**Part 1: Their First Chili**

_(Set before the pilot, after the flashback in "Tom Dayton Is Loose among Us")_

In the hallway famous Chief of detectives Robert T. Ironside crossed rookie cop Ed Brown, the officer whose fiancée had been killed a short time ago and who had surprised him with his thoroughness and professionalism while bringing down Tom Dayton, the man who was responsible for her death. Ironside had come to the conclusion that the officer was worthy of his furtherance.

"Good morning, Brown!" he greeted him. Contrary to custom - he was a tall man himself - he had to look up an inch or so.

"Morning, Sir." Brown's short response lacked in courtesy… or was it something else? Ironside shook his head.

Since he was still early he made a slight detour to Lt. Simon's office.

"Say – what's the matter with young Brown?"

"Well, after the death of his fiancée it seemed to me as if he had lost it. As you know pressure makes a good cop and breaks a bad one. I put him under pressure, let him work double shifts, gave him the toughest jobs in order to see how he holds on under pressure. And what you have just seen is the result."

Ironside was not sure he understood him. "Care to explain?"

"It's a shame. He is an intelligent officer, attentive, always by-the-book, never complaining, ready to work night and day. But he won't get old as a cop."

"Why not?"

"Either he will resign soon or he will be killed in the first dangerous situation."

That wasn't exactly what Ironside had expected.  
Answering his skeptical look Lt. Simon said: "I suppose he's just not tough enough, or else he can't put his girl's death behind him. He's … a shell. I have never seen him smile, or have a drink with the others, not even curse or object to somebody. I know that he is a good shot, but last time I saw him on the firing range he failed miserably. He has become so thin that I doubt he could defend himself if assaulted by my grandmother. Wanna hear more?"

Ironside felt disappointed… and challenged. He had thought that Brown had the makings of a good cop, and it was rare that he could not trust his instinct. And yes, he hated being wrong.

"I want to keep a close eye on him for a day or two. If you are right I will make him resign. He has a college education. He could always work as a school teacher or a social worker or whatever. I have no use for an officer who doesn't have it in him. And I don't want him killed either."

* * *

Brown's square-jawed face did not give away whether he was pleased with the prospect of working directly with the Chief or not.  
Usually Ironside would not have cared a fig about somebody being pleased or not, but this time it was different. He felt challenged. He wanted Simon to be wrong.

The Lieutenant had exaggerated of course, but Brown indeed looked as if he had lost weight. He was probably the type who stops eating when in trouble. Ironside soon noticed that Simon had been right about the rest too: Brown was faithful, he had a good eye for details and he tried to do everything right. In the beginning he winced whenever the Chief raised his voice against somebody, which happened quite often, but then he seemed to get used to it and to deal with it the same way as with everything else, be it a murder case or an old lady looking for her doggie: indifferently, like a shell, as Simon had called it, almost apathetically.  
The Chief had taken a look into his file, and it confirmed his feeling that the man had a potential. His colleagues seemed to like him. They called him 'Steady Eddie'. But there was a difference between 'steady' and 'apathetic'. And Ironside had seen a very different side of him when they had investigated Tom Dayton: an angry, energetic one. He would have to find a way to give him some emotions back – be it happiness or anger or fear or whatever.

The occasion arose when he had to go out on a murder investigation which did not get on. It seemed to be part of a mean, dirty serial killing. It would be interesting to see the man act on a really distressing case.

Yet on their way to the murder scene they heard of a robbery in process, done by a youth gang. It was only a block away.

"Turn left, we'll have a look at that!"

Seconds later they saw three youngsters intrude into a gun shop by a smashed window. Both men jumped out of the car and pulled their weapons.  
Ironside signed Brown to enter by the door while he watched the window.  
As he had expected the youngsters fled through the window, as soon as they saw Brown's uniform.  
There were four of them, Brown on their heels. "Stop, police!" Ironside shouted.  
Three of the teenagers obeyed, probably more convinced by his gun than by his shouting.  
One, an Afro-American, ran past him at high speed. The Chief had no intention of shooting him.

"Brown, go get that kid!"

Immediately the officer complied.

Surprised Ironside noticed that the other members of the gang started to smirk. One, a Latino with a scar on his cheek, even cackled.

"What's so funny about being caught by the police?"

"For one your boy will never get Mark, he's too fast. And I suggest you even _pray_ that the pig won't get him. 'Cuz, if he does, Mark Sanger will make mincemeat of him. He's the next Cassius Clay."

The fugitive was indeed quick as a flash. But long-legged Brown followed him much faster than anyone – except the Chief – would have expected.  
He managed to corner the black boy. Quietly he talked to him. Of course, they were too far away for Ironside and the gang to overhear what he said. Most probably he tried to convince him to give up.  
Suddenly Mark's right fist shot out and he punched the policeman hard into the stomach. Brown doubled over, his head colliding with Mark's hoisted knee.

"What did I tell you?" triumphed the Latino.

Ironside had to think of Lt. Simon who had said that Brown was unable to defend himself. Still this was only a teenager… Should he really let three rascals get away in order to save a cop from a fourth one?!

Yet the officer seemed to pull himself together. Sanger kept hitting him, but now Brown blocked most of his blows.

"Your pig doesn't get in a single hit!" sneered the scarred Latino.

Ironside knew why. If Brown injured the boy he would be accused of police brutality. Right now the newspapers loved this term. So he just waited for his chance to subdue the kid.

Finally Brown managed to turn Mark's arm around. He had learned the moves well at the police academy.  
Determinedly and absolutely correctly he steered the captive back to Ironside. The man really ran things by the book!  
Mark kicked against his shinbones at every possible opportunity. By the time they reached the group Brown was breathing heavily.

"Keep him under control, officer, I will call for backup," decided Ironside.

The four kids were taken to headquarters and booked.  
Looking at Brown and Sanger, Ironside caught himself comparing the two young men. Their being both young and unhappy seemed to be the only thing they had in common. Sanger was angry, aggressive and criminal. Brown was depressed, self-controlled and straight. Sanger was definitely better off. Although the officer had done a good job today Ironside could not help being concerned about him.

* * *

When Ironside opened the door to the men's bathroom a little later he heard a strange sound: somebody was vomiting into a sink.  
The Chief was about to turn around and leave. After all he was the Chief of detectives. None of his officers would want that he see them in such a demeaning situation.

Later he would not be able to tell what had kept him from doing exactly that; perhaps it was some kind of a hunch.  
Together with his superior mind this half-unconscious alertness made him the outstanding detective he was, and he knew it. He trusted his hunches.  
He entered the restroom.  
He was not surprised to recognize the back of the tall, slim man who was bending over the sink.

"You should see a doctor."

Brown pushed himself up. "I'm fine."

"That must have been a nasty punch to your stomach."

Something in the officer's pale face seemed to change.

Out of the blue he went through the roof. He punched the wall, hard.  
"Who cares? Every bum has the right to swipe, to threaten, to bash us up, and if we defend ourselves we make the headlines because we are violent. Talk about equality: the crooks always have the law on their side. I'm fed up with it!"

* * *

_Author's note:_

_This is the beginning of a story written as a birthday present for "Bluesyblege" (Part 1) and "Lemonpig" (Part 2). Thank you, my dear friends, for letting me publish 'your' story! _


	2. Chapter 2

Suddenly he seemed to realize what he had done. He turned away and buried his head in his crossed arms against the wall.

He was far out of line. Ironside knew that he should have reprimanded him immediately. It was impossible to tolerate such lack of respect towards a superior.

Yet for an entire minute he didn't say a single word.

He saw that the bony shoulders under the thin shirt were trembling. Between grief, pressure and now physical pain the man was on the brink of breaking down. One wrong word would be the final straw for him.

On the other hand he had shown anger, even fury – for the first time since he had explained to him his obsession of finding Tom Dayton. Fury was much better than depression. It was a step a step away from it. What did he need now to take the next one?

Ironside resisted the urge to lay his arm around the boy's shoulders.

Instead he barked, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself! You are a trained police officer, and moreover a flaming good one, if you could just buck up. Perhaps you could for once start thinking of those who can't defend themselves against those crooks – children, women, the handicapped, old people! They depend on you. Of course, it's your flaming choice if you want to let them down and walk away!"

Brown's face was as white as a sheet. He swayed slightly. If Ironside wanted to keep his chances of a career in the department intact he could not let him fall apart before his very eyes.  
His voice softened just a little, "Nobody said that it would be easy. I will forget what I saw here. But you decide if you want to stay, and if so, pull yourself together. And first of all you go and see a doctor. That's an order."

At that he turned around and left.

* * *

Ironside's first action the next morning was a quick phone call to the police doctor to ask if Ed Brown had come by.

"Brown… Brown? A tall, thin rookie? Yes, he put his head through the door and said that he had got a bump on it, and that he was fine, but asked if I could give him an aspirin, just in case. Of course, I gave him one. Why, is there anything wrong with him?"

"I hope not!" grumbled Ironside.

Brown, the square, by-the-book officer! He _had_ executed the Chief's command. Of course he _also_ had a bump on his head…

While the Chief was talking to the Commissioner on the phone Brown knocked at his door. Ironside signed him to come in. His pale face was motionless, but his rigid posture betrayed his anger. That was at least a progress.  
Deliberately Ironside was a little more explicit than necessary towards his boss, "Mark Sanger lives with his aunt. He must have had a very difficult start in life. I would like to give him a second chance. … Yes, Commissioner, I will see what I can do."  
He hung up.

"Sit down, officer. What did the doctor say?"

"He didn't say that I was not cleared for duty."

Ironside almost laughed out loud. That was the truth again. "Yes, because you didn't tell him about the blow to your stomach!"

"I thought that there were people out there needing us." He sounded almost as angry as Mark Sanger.

"Yes, there are. And I want you to be my personal assistant for the next couple of weeks."

Surprised, Brown stared at him. He had been expecting anything but this. In his eyes he deserved a reprimand, but this was more something like a promotion.

"One condition – from now on you have at least two meals a day. I need an assistant who is not liable to get beaten up by a teenager."

Brown cringed. Ironside knew that this had not been fair. But it would work.

"And I would appreciate it if my orders were taken literally."

* * *

The next task was the interrogation of the four youngsters. Since Mark Sanger seemed to be the smartest one, Ironside wanted to question him personally.

Brown could probably learn a lot by watching him through the one-way glass.

Before they could sit down, the Afro-American snatched Ironside's service revolver from his belt. Brown saw it and stormed into the interrogation room with his gun drawn.

But in the meantime a fight had developed and the Chief had made Mark drop the weapon...  
Brown holstered his gun in order to be able to intervene. Yet it did not come to that. The strong Afro-American didn't stand a chance against Chief Ironside. Solid like a rock he stood there and dominated the fight at his convenience.  
Finally he grabbed the teenager and made him sit down. "Had enough for now?" he asked, and the boy nodded.

"Thank you, officer, but your help was not necessary."  
He almost smiled at Brown, who nodded, impressed. This man was amazing! Being Chief of detectives obviously did not preclude him from being in excellent physical shape.  
He picked the revolver up and handed it back to his superior.

"While you are here you may as well stay with us," said Ironside, and to Mark, "Sanger, I heard that you are not even a member of the gang which wanted to rob the shop. Why did you run?"

"You would have run too if you were black, the window of a shop was broken and a cop walked in!"

"When Officer Brown talked to you, you could have explained that you were not involved in the robbery."

"Who would have believed me?"

"I would, and I still do, but in the meantime you have assaulted two police officers."

"What difference does it make? You jail me anyway."

"We'll see. Brown, will you press charges against Mr. Sanger?"

Unknowingly the policeman clutched his hurting stomach. It did not go unnoticed.

Brown remembered what the Chief had said on the phone – that he wanted to give the boy a second chance. He was not mad at him personally but at the whole world, and he had taken worse beatings without pressing charges against anybody.  
"No, Sir. It's up to you if Mr. Sanger will be charged."

"Ok, young man – in that case I will recommend you for youthful offender treatment, meaning that we let you get off lightly this time. Use this second chance and make something of your life."

"Don't hold your breath until I say thank you!"

* * *

"I'm afraid that this is not the last we see of Mark Sanger," said Ironside thoughtfully when they were back to his office.

"I hope you are wrong, but to grow up where he has to and without his parents, that must be tough. He deserves better."  
That was a lot of sympathy from a man who seemed to be lost in his own grief – and who had been beaten up pretty badly by the object of his sympathy.

"Some of these kids make it out of there, like football star Bat Masterson. Perhaps Mark is really about to become a second Cassius Clay, he throws a good punch."

Again Brown's arm moved protectively towards his midriff. This time the Chief reacted.

"You really have to see a doctor for your stomach!"

For the first time since Ironside knew him Ed Brown smiled, although it looked a little strained. "You mean – seeing one will be enough?" he asked, almost mischievously.

Ironside felt as if he had hit the jackpot. He had been sure that behind that square-jawed facade there had to be someone else – and there was: A fine young man, a little too earnest perhaps, which was understandable after the death of the woman he loved, but nevertheless not without humor. He was bright, caring and dedicated. They would get along just fine.

"I mean seeing one to tell you if there is any severe damage and when you will be cleared for full duty, which includes having a nice, hot chili dinner with me."

"Chi-li, Sir?" Ed's stomach visibly convulsed at the idea of such an imposition.

"Yes, chili. I need an assistant who can stand the heat, which includes eating my chili. Don't you know? Chili happens to contain every food element a man needs to live…!"

* * *

_tbc!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 2, two years later: **

**Not Enough Chili**

Chief Robert Ironside parked his car on Fulton Street, right outside Golden Gate Park. Swiftly he followed the two men who had left the blue van in front of him.

Their names were Faucher and Redman. They seemed to belong to a militant sect who called themselves 'The Proclaimers'.  
For about a year the members of this sect had pestered people with their fearmongering and obtrusive propaganda.  
Now indications of crimes ranging from theft to abduction had shown up.  
Faucher and Redman had criminal records, and they had only joined the sect a few days ago. Ironside didn't know what exactly they were up to – or if they were up to something at all - but his gut feeling told him that he should grab the opportunity and tail them when he saw them leave their meeting place.

Although he was a big man he moved with ease, his strong body entirely under the control of his alert mind.  
The two suspects walked into the park, unaware that they were being shadowed.  
It was not often anymore that the Chief was out on a stakeout himself, but he still knew the ropes better than anybody in the department. His long career in the navy and as a police officer had given him more hands-on experience than anybody else.  
He had to smile. Young ex-Marine Ed Brown for instance had about the same fields of expertise, but he still had a lot to learn, and moreover he always looked as if he had trouble handling his long arms and legs.

Hidden behind a tree he observed the scene before his eyes, people enjoying themselves in the park on a sunny day.

He let his gaze wander over the open space between the trees.  
Suddenly he recognized a face, a black youth was milling around … Mark Sanger! Two years ago he and Ed Brown had had a run-in with him.  
What was he doing here? It was very unlikely that he was just enjoying the fresh air in the park.  
Was there a connection to 'The Proclaimers'? It seemed somehow far-fetched. Mark had not struck him as a particularly religious type. But he might very well be involved in some sort of scheme…

Faucher and Redman entered the M. H. de Young Memorial Museum.

If Ironside did not want to lose them he had to cross the open space. Sanger would see him. But then – he was probably not playing an important part in this case, if any.  
Ironside left his hideout and followed the two men.  
He spun around when he heard the breaking of glass behind him.  
Apparently Mark Sanger had smashed one of the glass globes adorning the lamps in the park! Two uniformed police officers came running by. A group of kids tried to block their path. Other people were shouting around.

This was no accident. Mark had provoked this ruckus deliberately, the Chief was almost sure of that. Why? Was he keeping a lookout for somebody? Did he want to alert them now?

Meanwhile Ironside had reached the museum. He would have to be careful. And yes, he should have taken one of his assistants with him, Brown for instance. Not Eve Whitfield of course, he hated exposing her to danger.

Very carefully he opened the door, expecting an ambush. He was a professional, he would not be surprised easily.

A cry of terror hit his ear. Ironside had too much of a knight in shining armor in him to stay put when he heard the cry of a lady.  
He yanked the door to his left open and with one quick step he stood in the room behind it, his service revolver drawn, ready to fire.

He dropped it immediately.  
Two guns in very steady hands – the hands of Faucher and Redman - were pointed… not at him but at a baby on a woman's arm… supposedly the one who had cried out.

"I don't know what you want here, but you will not get it," said a third man in the room. He had fifty pounds too much around his waistline, but unlike Ironside not muscles.  
His name was unknown to the police. He called himself 'The Enlightened' – the leader of 'The Proclaimers'.

"I recognize you, you are the Chief of detectives of the San Francisco Police, aren't you? That comes handy, that way you can't pursue us. You are quite famous, you know!"

Calmly Ironside stood there and took the scene in.  
The young woman with the baby was Mrs. Gloria Hamilton, admired cover of a zillion magazines. Her husband, millionaire Howard Hamilton, was sitting on a chair. Hardly did he risk breathing. The baby had to be their daughter, Claudia, if Ironside remembered well.

So there was a point to the rumors about abductions by 'The Proclaimers'. He was not happy about the way he had found proof of that though.

A fourth man entered, clad in outerwear with the emblem of the museum.

"Hawkins, show these people the way down to the cellar!" commanded 'the Enlightened'.

Ironside's thoughts rotated with lightning speed. Would they be shot? Perhaps not yet, but their chances to escape would be very limited down there.  
He would have to try to get away as soon as possible. The criminals would not shoot the child, she was their best hostage. Hamilton was a strong man, built like a weightlifter. Together they could do it…

Redman pushed his revolver into Ironside's back to make him walk towards the stairs.  
This was a mistake, he was too close to have control over his potential victim. Ironside knew the move. In a quick spin he turned around, hit the hand with the gun away, then grabbed it and pushed it upwards. The gun discharged, but the bullets went harmlessly into the ceiling.

Ironside wrested the gun out of the man's hand and pointed it at the leader.  
"Now call your second jumping jack off!" he barked, never letting the second gunman out of his sight.

But the danger came from a completely unexpected direction.  
Shouting "Nooo, they will kill my baby!" Hamilton threw himself at Ironside with his full weight which was considerable.  
Ironside didn't fall down but he almost lost his balance and his gun was pushed off target – long enough for Faucher to get a round off.  
White-hot pain ripped through Ironside's right shoulder and he lost consciousness.

* * *

"Do you know where the Chief is?" Sgt. Ed Brown asked rookie detective Eve Whitfield.

"As far as I know he got a phone call and left about two hours ago. I think it was about that militant sect."

"Thanks," answered the tall Sergeant. He knew about 'The Proclaimers' of course. "Please let me know when you hear from him, will you?"

"No problem," answered the self-confident beauty who had just left the police academy.

"I don't think that Chief Ironside's schedule is any of your business, young man!" said a sharp voice behind them.  
The voice belonged to Lt. Greeves. He consisted of six feet of steely muscles, a sharp brain and a ton of ambition.  
He hated having to look up to somebody, let alone to a rookie like Brown.  
"As far as I know you have still not found out who was behind that burglary on Market Street."

The burglary had taken place just the day before, and it would be next to impossible to identify the masked men who had committed it.  
"Swing back there and see that you get to make an arrest!"

Wordlessly Ed left. He had no idea what he had done to the man. The Lieutenant acted as if Brown had killed his pussycat.

* * *

Ironside woke up on a very small, hard cot.  
The wound in his shoulder made him groan, until he became aware of it. Then he suppressed it.  
He tried to reconstruct in his mind what had happened.  
He had been shot! Unwillingly his left hand moved up to the injured area. The shoulder had been dressed, but that didn't help against the pain.  
Ironside looked around. He was not alone. The caretaker of the museum – he remembered, Hawkins – was sitting at a small table nearby and reading.

When Ironside sat up with an enormous effort he asked: "How are you? Believe me, I didn't want anybody to get hurt."

"Ah, so you are a member of the Salvation Army, I suppose!" grumbled Ironside ironically.  
Cold sweat was running into his eyes.

"No, Sir, that's an error, the Salvation Army is on the wrong path. They will perish on Judgment Day. Believe me, only members of 'The Proclaimers' will be saved."


	4. Chapter 4

Ironside refrained from sneering at him. On one hand he had trouble staying conscious, on the other the man seemed to be a faithful member of 'The Proclaimers'. And he did not seem to be very bright. That might be his chance to escape. But first he needed more information.

Pulling himself together with all his strength he asked, "Where are the Hamiltons?"

"They were moved to another place. They could not stay here, could they? There's not enough room. With their baby in danger they walked out without giving Redman and Faucher any trouble. Unfortunately you were unconscious, so they could not get you out right away. This is my cot, sometimes I stay here overnight, when I have to work late."

"What will happen to the Hamiltons?"

"Oh, nothing, Sir. They will pay a ransom and then they can go free. You must understand that we need money. All the pamphlets we distribute, they cost a lot. It is very important that we distribute as many of them as possible to warn people and convert them before Judgment Day. Otherwise they would all perish. It's our holy duty to warn them."

The man really believed what he had been told! Probably the ransom of the Hamilton family would sponsor 'The Enlightened' more than the pamphlets, but this peabrain would not be told so, of course.

Perhaps he could get rid of him… "Hawkins – that's your name, isn't it? – I'm thirsty. Could you get some water for me?"

"No Sir, I'm very sorry, I have to stay with you. I can't leave. But you won't have to stay here very long. After sunset you will be moved somewhere else, and there will be plenty of water."

Ok, it had been worth a try. While talking Hawkins had closed the booklet he had been reading, yet leaving his middle finger in it as a bookmark. On the cover of the booklet he had scribbled something… it looked like an address.

"Would you let me read your book? I should know about Judgment Day, too, should I not?"

"Oh yes, Sir, by all means! Pages 6 and 7 are particularly important!" Delightedly he gave Ironside his book. For himself he picked up another one from his nightstand.

The Chief glanced at the cover. Indeed an address was scribbled in an inexperienced handwriting, and the ink looked fresh.

If this was the address where he would be taken he had to find a way to leave a message. Sooner or later the police would – hopefully – get here and find it.

While thinking about what to do he flipped through the booklet, seemingly giving pages 6 and 7 particular interest.

The book consisted of short texts in an antique language. They sounded like Psalms, but most of them did not make much sense to Ironside. There was a lot about 'enlightenment' and 'heaven' and 'firm believing', and of course about 'judgment' and that whoever was not a member of 'The Proclaimers' would perish.

Slowly a plan formed in Ironside's mind.

"You see, Hawkins, I might very well become a "Proclaimer" myself. In fact I believe that I became just a little bit enlightened. It would be very comforting for me if I could write down a prayer which came to me in this minute."

Hawkins was perplexed. He had never been enlightened enough to write down a prayer. "Yes Sir, please do that! Do you have any paper and a pen?"

Of course Ironside had that. The problem was now to get his message out in a way that the police would recognize it as a message but not Hawkins.

He had to write with his left hand, since his right arm hurt too much. The result looked more or less like the psalms in the booklet and sounded just as silly,

_Prayer in danger and despair_  
Listen to the Lord Almighty  
His will is always good, be it taken easily or with tears to you  
Eight ways to go, never none, in life, neither seven  
I'll be safe forever  
El, he is God, street to heaven.  
Amen.

Hawkins was deeply impressed. "Sir, this is wonderful. I think you are already converted! 'The Enlightened', our great Master, will be delighted to welcome you as a new member of 'The Proclaimers'!"

A smart cop might get the information he needed – Brown for instance, or Eve Whitfield or maybe Lt. Greeves. Whitfield was still awfully young though, and unfortunately Greeves and Brown didn't get on well with each other. Greeves could not stand another smart man besides him, and he had been out of his mind when Ed had made it Sergeant much younger than himself. It was a pity that he was so jealous, because he was basically a good officer. Brown on the other hand was so naïve that he expected everybody to be nice. He tried to please everybody, even Greeves, which caused the Lieutenant to become increasingly nasty towards him…

When night fell Hawkins picked up his booklet – the one with the address on it – and asked Ironside to get up.

Ironside put his 'prayer' into Hawkins' second booklet and left it on the nightstand. "This is a little thank-you gift for you, because you let me read your book. You may keep it as a souvenir from a soul you converted."

He had to grit his teeth when Hawkins helped him up the stairs. No way could he flee right now.

* * *

When Ed came back to headquarters after a day of routine tasks he heard that Ironside had vanished. His car had been seen on Fulton Street. There were no traces of a crime, but no trace of the Chief of detectives either.  
Ed asked what had been done to find him, but all he got back where shrugs. If the Chief chose to take a day off then he had every right to do so, considering that he never went on holiday.

Ed did not believe this explanation, and he said so.

When Greeves heard it he muttered something like "missing daddy" and, very audibly, "I expect you to work tomorrow at eight, and be fully operational, Sergeant!"

Brown didn't doubt that he did.

Nevertheless he stayed and went through the crime reports. What had happened in the area of the abandoned car this afternoon?  
There were no accidents, but some ruckus in Golden Gate Park because of a youth smashing a street lamp – Mark Sanger! His stomach still ached at the thought of the strong black boy. But hardly would he have anything to do with Ironside's vanishing. Or would he?  
Reading on he found a very mysterious report. People had heard shots in Young Memorial Museum. Two colleagues had been there and had searched the part of the building in question. They had found two bullet holes in the ceiling of a room, but nothing else. Very strange indeed.

Ed compared the times of the events. The turmoil in the park had taken place at 11 am, the shots had been heard only minutes afterwards. The Chief had called in around 10 am for the last time, saying that he would tail two members of 'The Proclaimers', and his car was parked within walking distance from the museum.

Chief Ironside – 'The Proclaimers' – Mark Sanger – mysterious shots in a museum… was there a link between two of these? Or between all of them?

Ed knew that he would not get Greeves' permission to interfere with a case which he would say was no case at all. Ed would do it anyway. Ironside would have moved heaven and earth if he suspected that something had happened to one of his people. Ed would not have been able to describe what he felt for the genial man, but he was sure that behind his rough facade was a big, caring heart. Ed would do just about anything for him.  
He picked up his jacket and left. He might not help his career by waking up the director of the museum, but he didn't care.

Methodically and very thoroughly – the way Ironside had taught him to do it - he searched the entire building. It would have helped if he knew what he was looking for. But then – he probably would know what he was looking for when he found it, as Ironside would have put it.

He saw the bullet holes but nothing that his colleagues had not mentioned in the file.

A small room in the cellar seemed to be private. It was very simply furnished, perhaps a refuge for somebody who sometimes had to work at night. A booklet was lying on the nightstand. Contrary to what he would have expected it wasn't a detective story but some kind of religious brochure. Taking a second look he noticed that it was published by 'The Proclaimers'!


	5. Chapter 5

There was his link between the events around this place and Ironside. Ed was sure that he was on the right track.

He browsed through the booklet and shook his head at the strange content.  
Like a bookmark a small sheet of paper lay in it… a page of a notebook, the same kind he used himself… and also the Chief.  
He stopped short. Some kind of weird prayer was written on it. Somehow the writing looked familiar… although it was _not_ the Chief's handwriting; Ed would have recognized it.

He was disappointed. He had been expecting too much… he had hoped for a hint from Ironside…  
Suddenly he felt the lack of sleep and the tension of the past hours. And of course he had not eaten anything since he'd had a sandwich for lunch – he usually forgot to eat when under stress. Not that it would have mattered.

Nevertheless his mind raced on. There was something about this note.  
Could Ironside for some reason have written it with his _left_ hand?  
But why should he write such a strange text? It sounded almost like the ones in the booklet, but not quite.

He would have to check the sheet for fingerprints to be more or less sure of that.

When he walked up to the main entrance he noticed that it had dawned. He glanced at his watch. He would have to hurry to be in the office on time. And he would have to try to get help from Lt. Greeves.

* * *

For Robert Ironside a long, tough night came to an end.

He had been transported into another house. Since Hawkins had taken a last look at the note on his booklet before putting it into his pocket, Ironside supposed that he was in 807 Ellis Street now.

It was difficult to think clearly when half of one's consciousness was permanently glued to one's shoulder. The pain had become almost unbearable. Nevertheless he had tried his bonds over and over again, but they were firm. He had to get out of here, at any cost. But Hawkins, Faucher and Redman watched him alternately.

His mind raced trying to think of an escape plan. But he would have to wait for the right opportunity.

* * *

Ed reached the Hall of Justice just in time. First thing was to get himself a cup of black coffee. He didn't get to drink the first sip though.

"Brown!"

Startled Ed turned around, too fast. Most of his coffee swashed over Greeves' sleeve, because the Lieutenant had been standing very close behind him.

"You, little…!" Greeves' comment was not worthy of being kept in mind, but it made it clear that he would hardly support whatever Ed would propose.

Quickly Eve came by and patted the wet sleeve with a towel. "It's not that bad, fortunately the jacket is quite dark. When it is dry nothing will be visible anymore," she tried to soothe.  
But the damage was done, if not to the jacket then to Ed's plans.

"Sergeant, I have not seen your report from yesterday yet," Greeves said, his voice now colder than ice. "I expect it within the next twenty minutes, and afterwards you take care of the statistics of last month's car thefts."

Ed was not brilliant with a typewriter, not even on a good day, and this was not a good day. With his mind occupied with the Chief's disappearance he could not concentrate on the task at hand. He kept making typing errors.  
Finally Eve Whitfield took pity on him. "Come on, let me do this," she offered in a low voice.

That way he escaped Lt. Greeves' next rebuke, but not the blasted statistics.

In the afternoon he had to go out on a crime scene with another rookie, nothing important. But Greeves kept him busy until 11pm.  
Not surprisingly for Ed Ironside did not show up.

Finally Ed could get back to the task of the notebook page.

Although no expert at dactyloscopy he knew enough about fingerprints to secure the ones on the slip of paper and compare them to the card file – and it turned out that the Chief's where on it! Why had he written this weird text? And why in a special handwriting?

The second question was probably easier. The Chief might be unable to use his right hand – perhaps he was pinioned… or hurt. But he didn't know where to start searching for an answer to the first one.

He decided to consult a priest to help him determine if the text had anything to do with a psalm of the Holy Bible. It took him more than an hour to get one out of bed. The old man was very friendly but insisted that there was no resemblance between this text and any part of the Bible.

With his third cup of coffee Ed sat down at his desk.  
Everything was quiet now, he was almost alone. Sleep threatened to get the best of him. But no – he was sure now that his boss was in trouble and almost sure that this had to be a code. If so he would crack it.

He tried every trick he knew – and he knew quite a few. He had always loved codes and puzzles… numeric codes… word games…

What was it?

Finally he saw a pattern. The first word, "listen", consisted of 6 letters. If he counted from there six words on, the next one would be "will", a four-letter word. Four words further he read "be", which took him two words further, to "taken". With the same rule he found "to", "eight", "none", "seven", "El", "is" and "street".*****

_Prayer in danger and despair  
_Listen to the Lord Almighty,  
His will is always good, be it taken easily or with tears to you  
eight ways to go, never none, in life, neither seven  
I'll be safe forever  
El, he is God, street to heaven.  
Amen.

That way it made sense! "LISTEN WILL BE TAKEN TO EIGHT NONE SEVEN EL IS STREET."

This had to be a message! Ironside wanted them to know to which address he would be taken.

"None" was the same as "zero". The most likely number was "807".

With the street he had some trouble first. "EL IS STREET"? "El" meant God. Should he look for a street name with an affinity to religion? Mission street perhaps? He was too tired to think straight, so he took a city map and just let his gaze wander over it. It lasted far too long until a particular name caught his eye, "Ellis street"! A dangerous neighborhood. There was trouble almost every week… Yes, this had to be it!

Stepping out into the hall he saw that Lt. Greeves was already here.  
With disgust the Lieutenant looked at the slightly disheveled Sergeant. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed his nightly activities.

"Sergeant! Do you think that your private nightly interests are more important than the department's needs? Go on another five minutes like this and you won't be needed anymore – permanently!" he threatened.

"Sir, I believe that Chief Ironside was abducted, and I think I know where they planned to keep him hostage!" Ed was almost pleading.

"Brown, I warn you! Your puppy dog eyes may work with the ladies, but don't try them on me!"

"Lieutenant, what if I am right? Perhaps he is still being kept there. We have to hurry over there!" shouted Ed, waving the sheet with the prayer under Greeves' nose.

"Now that's enough, you are fired!"  
Greeves grabbed the slight Sergeant's wrist.  
Perhaps he wanted to take a look at the note, perhaps he was just too enraged to know what exactly he wanted.  
He was a strong man, Ed could not have taken him on, and tired as he was he was still reasonable enough not to attack a superior officer.  
Greeves' iron grip hurt. The paper dropped out of Ed's hand.  
Still he was not ready to just capitulate. Ironside was perhaps in mortal danger! He had to help him.

Ed was not as brawny as the Lieutenant by a long shot, but he was quick. Greeves didn't know how this could happen to him: Brown yanked his arm free and turned to leave. "All right! But first I will try to find the Chief!" he shouted angrily. Then he stormed out.

* * *

For 36 hours Robert T. Ironside had now been bound to a chair, blindfolded and gagged.  
Several times the gag had been removed to let him drink some water, but every time Faucher or Redman had made it clear that they would shoot him if he uttered a single sound. They had guns with silencers, they meant business.

Ironside would never give up. His mind was as alert as ever.  
But he was also realistic, very likely he would not get out of here alive.

The pain in his shoulder was insupportable now, the wound started to get infected. The anguish made him sick and dizzy.  
It became increasingly difficult to stay alert.

From time to time his mind wandered off. He had dreamed of making a difference – during the war, but even more as a police officer. Had he been able to change things? Criminals were afraid of him, but the crime rate had not gone down considerably.  
Was his life a failure?  
No, it wasn't. Deep down he knew that he had saved more people's lives as a police officer than as a war hero. He had shown some young people how to do good police work. It was a pity that he could not go on teaching Ed Brown and Eve Whitfield, probably the smartest ones he'd ever had.  
Brown was a fine young man, he would come a long way.  
And officer Whitfield… Eve… she was something very, very special. After the death of his wife he had never thought of remarrying. Now Eve was much younger than him, of course. Nevertheless it didn't seem to be so far-fetched anymore.  
There was not much else to do, so he permitted himself to dream about what perhaps might have been…

* * *

Eve Whitfield had entered the office and heard the last part of the quarrel between Lt. Greeves and Sgt. Brown.

Frightened she watched the normally calm, friendly Sergeant leave – a Sergeant who was all but any of this right now, then she threw a glance at the Lieutenant, who seemed to be just as furious.  
"Stop gawking! Get to work. I want the Fowler report written right now!"

Fortunately he left for his own desk, leaving Eve enough space to calm down.  
By force of habit she picked up the little sheet which had fallen under the next desk. It had to be important to Ed Brown, and Ed was someone she would normally take seriously.  
She stared at the underlined words. They looked like an address… 807 EL IS STREET... Was this where Ed thought that Ironside would be found? What was EL IS STREET? If only she could have asked him. But she could not risk radioing him. She would be watched too closely by Greeves.

Still her thoughts and prayers were with Ed – and with Ironside, of course, same as they had been for the last two days.

* * *

"Sir, I don't want to do this." It was Hawkins' voice, and the Chief believed him.  
"I'm very sorry, my dear brother. But the Master's will is sometimes hard to understand, as you wrote in your prayer. I am sure you will be a martyr in heaven. Farewell, Sir."

Somehow Ironside knew what was about to come, but he had no way of preventing it. He didn't delude himself, this would be the end.

He felt a hard blow on his head, then everything went black.

* * *

Ed Brown arrived at 807 Ellis Street.

The building was declared as "demolition object". It had four levels. Bricks and tiles had fallen off the walls and the roof, and every single window was smashed in. A sign denied access.

Ed stepped out of his car. Instantly he smelled the smoke. It seemed to come out of this house! And yes, now he saw it, the fire had to be on the first floor...

* * *

_* After Martin Kruskal, who discovered the "Kruskal's principle" in the seventies. _

_Author's note:_

_Dear readers, my beta and I __'argue' a lot and the text keeps traveling back and forth between Switzerland and France. This chapter crossed the frontier 11 times. __A huge thank you, my dear 'Lemonpig', for being so patient!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chili**

Ed reached back into his car and alerted the fire department and instructed them to call the police, too.

Without thinking about his own safety, he went over the barricade in front of the house and tried the door. It was unlocked. Inside the floor was littered with debris. The stairs looked as if they had been used recently, but he could not be sure of that.  
With his gun drawn Ed ran up the stairs. This might be a trap, but more likely the Chief was about to be murdered! And what if he was already too late?  
Hastily he checked every floor. The fire on the first floor was far too big to be extinguished without any equipment. Ed hurried on.  
Finally, on the top floor, he found Chief Ironside!

He looked terrible. He was gagged, blindfolded, tied to a chair and obviously unconscious. His right shoulder was wrapped in a thick, not very clean bandage. The smoke was getting thicker by the minute.  
Ed could not wait for a rescue team. In record time he cut the ropes and freed Ironside from the blindfold and gag. But how should he get the big man out of the house? Thinking about it would not help.

It was not the first time he had to carry a man – he'd been a Marine after all. Without any further thought he shouldered his unconscious hero. The weight made him stagger, and his back seemed to break. But giving up was not an option. Through the thick smoke he searched his way back to the stairs and down, bracing himself on the banister.

On top of the last flight of steps his knees buckled and he broke down under his burden. The last thing he heard was the terrible sound of his boss' body crashing into the entrance door. Then he lost consciousness.

* * *

Eve overheard the phone call from the fire department. It had nothing to do with her of course… until she became aware of the address, 807 Ellis Street! This had to be the address on the notebook page!

She stood up and headed directly into Commissioner Randall's office, past his perplexed secretary, without even knocking at his door.

She tossed the page of the notebook onto his desk and with a few words she explained what she thought Ed had found out.

You don't become police Commissioner of a big city by replying to an ad in the newspaper. Today Dennis Randall proved that he was worthy of his job. He pressed an alarm button and together with two black and whites he drove to Tenderloin, Eve Whitfield in his own car.

The firefighters were already on location, but since 807 was a 'demolition project' they concentrated on protecting the adjoining buildings.

"Have you checked if anybody is in the house?" asked Randall.

The leader of the firefighting team pointed at the sign. "No, since nobody is supposed to be in it anyway. And now nobody would be alive anymore, this poisonous smoke is too thick."

Randall didn't tell him that the entire police department would be redundant if people only did what they were supposed to do. "Send two men in. We have reason to believe that there are people in there."

Since there was an obstacle behind the door it had to be broken… and then everything went very fast. An unconscious Chief Ironside was laid onto a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance.  
Sgt. Brown had regained consciousness as soon as he was out in the fresh air.  
He insisted on riding to the hospital together with Ironside. It was fine with the paramedic, since – so he thought - the boy looked almost as bad as the Chief of detectives.

Yet in hospital the Sergeant refused any examination as well as any food and fluids, although it was obvious that he needed all that. He only wanted to stay at the Chief's bedside as soon as he got out of surgery. Old Dr. Freeman shook his head in disbelief but let him have his way, expecting that the hardheaded young man would break down sooner or later – rather sooner than later, considering the amount of smoke he had inhaled, combined with exhaustion, worry and lack of sleep.

He didn't.

And that's how Ironside, when he finally came back to consciousness late in the evening, saw the spitting image of a scarecrow keeping watch at his bedside, a dirty, ruffled, pale, haggard, bleary-eyed Sergeant of detectives.

"Sir, how are you feeling?" Ed asked anxiously, as soon as he realized that his boss was awake.

Ironside wondered if the Sergeant was swaying or if it was his own dizziness which let him seem as if he was. But then the room would have swayed too, which actually wasn't, at least not synchronously.

Ironside frowned. His voice sounded almost as usual when he grumbled, "What's the matter with you? Are you drunk? I could do without a rookie Sergeant collapsing on my bed."

Only now Ed seemed to notice that he was the cause of the Chief's current irritation, although he felt responsible for basically all of Ironside's troubles.  
He got hold of the frame of Ironside's bed, turned and leaned his back against the wall and managed to stand almost straight. "Sir, I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"Huh? Sorry about what? About the hole in my shoulder? If I remember well it was not you who shot me."

As shortly as possible Ed explained what had happened. Swallowing hard he admitted to dropping the Chief in the stairs, thereby causing his bad concussion.

"Don't be silly. I can't even remember any smoke, meaning that I got the concussion when I was knocked out before the fire even started."

Brown was completely taken aback. Coming directly out of unconsciousness the Chief's thinking was more coherent than anyone else's…

"I was rendered unconscious. The fall may be the cause of some bruises, but I will survive these."

He could almost hear the load slipping off Brown's mind at his words.  
The Sergeant, who had been under permanent pressure for days, relaxed visibly.

"But, young man!" Ed startled at the sound of Ironside's voice. "If you let me drop, then this proves that you have not eaten enough of my chili. This will have to change." He grinned, looking very pleased with himself and his chain of reasoning.

He didn't grin for more than a few seconds though...


	7. Chapter 7

He didn't grin for more than a few seconds though as he heard a thud.  
Turning his head he realized that Brown was now sitting on the ground, one long leg outstretched, his head resting on the knee of the other one.

Dr. Freeman came running in. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"Of course I am. But Brown slid along the wall."

"Please, Sir, try to stay calm. Any agitation could be very dangerous for you right now!"

"I'm perfectly calm!" thundered the Chief. "But what's the matter with my Sergeant? Is he unconscious?"

The doctor realized that he would not be able to calm his patient unless he took care of Brown.

He slapped Ed's face gently. "Sergeant, can you hear me?"

Ed opened one eye – halfway – and tried to push the doctor's hand away like a pesky fly. Then he closed his eye again as if it were not worth the trouble.

"No, Chief, this young man is just tired. How long has he gone without sleep?" whispered the doctor.

"How should I know? About 64 hours, I suppose, give or take a few." Ironside didn't soften his voice. He was right, he could as well have used a megaphone.

The Sergeant was sound asleep, and he slept for the best part of the next 36 hours.

* * *

The next morning:

"And I tell you that I need a flaming phone, or I will leave this hospital straightaway!"

The young nurse paled. "Sir, I don't think that this will be possible. I will have to get the head nurse!"

The head nurse looked like a dragon and sounded like one, but she had no chance against San Francisco's determined Chief of detectives.

Dr. Freeman, who entered next, just threw one look into Ironside's room, then he turned around and called for the head physician.

"Mr. Ironside, you are suffering from a severe concussion, a smoke intoxication and an infected gunshot wound. It is almost a miracle that you survived all this – up to now. Are you aware that you risk further damage if you don't give your body the time and rest it needs to heal?"

"Doctor, are you aware that crime in this town does not stop just because I am in your flaming hospital? What if your grandmother is being abducted right now while you are keeping me from doing my job? Do you volunteer to do my job while I do something as useless as rest?!"

The senior consultant shook his head. This man, who was supposed to be more than half dead, showed more energy than three young bulls right after breakfast. He was speechless… almost. Turning his back on the renitent patient he muttered, "My grandmother died forty years ago. Of old age."

Twenty minutes later Ironside had not only a telephone but also a police cadet serving as an errand boy, a huge pot of coffee and a steak with potato chips.

Now San Francisco had two police headquarters, one at General Hospital and a second one in the Hall of Justice. There was no doubt about which one was more important: the one with one single telephone and one single errand boy. And Chief Robert T. Ironside, of course.

From his hospital bed he ran the entire police. His particular attention was directed at 'The Proclaimers'. It was soon established that the leader of the sect, whose name was actually John Miller, had millions in his bank accounts without being able to explain how he had got them. He was put behind bars. His henchmen were found soon enough. The Hamiltons, who had already paid the ransom but were still in their hands, were freed.

Mark Sanger, the young delinquent, was booked for causing the ruckus in Golden Gate Park and for damaging public property, but it was impossible to prove a connection between him and 'The Proclaimers' and that he had done it to help cover up a crime. Ironside requested that he be brought to General Hospital.

Somehow the Chief was convinced that this boy could still make his way out of the gutter.

"Sanger, I will recommend you for youthful offender treatment one more time. I strongly suggest that you use this last chance."

The answer was a look full of hatred. "Someday I'll kill you!"

Sanger turned around and left.

* * *

**Epilogue: No Chili**

The day after Ed Brown knocked at Ironside's door.

"Come in!" shouted the Chief.

When Ed noticed that his boss was busy on the telephone he wanted to back out, but Ironside signed him to come closer. He tried to write something into a notebook with his left hand, since his right was fixed to his upper body in order to immobilize his shoulder. He grimaced angrily when the notebook kept slipping away. Quickly Ed stepped by to hold the notebook in place for him.

Finally Ironside slammed the receiver down. Brown was surprised that the phone didn't break. It was probably made of steel.

"I don't believe it! You would think that people in our country go to school, and that over the years they would learn the difference between reality and a fairy tale! The more outrageous the story, the more silly people who believe it. Take 'The Proclaimers'. Nobody in their right mind could in all earnest believe what they write, but people still believe them. Now some of them go to prison together with 'The Enlightened' John Miller, just because they believed him and therefore committed crimes for him. It may sound unjust, but it can't be helped. Sometimes stupidity is to blame."

Meanwhile Eve Whitfield had entered too.

Brown scratched his head. "Just wondering… which religions or churches are right? If you just take the Christians: Catholics or Methodists or Lutherans or Baptists or whatever… which ones _do_ lead people to God? How can we know that it is God they talk about and not just a guru?"

Ironside thought about it for a second. "I'm hardly an expert for this kind of question. Not just one, I'd say. It would have to be a religion which does not enslave and scare those who believe, but which sets you free to do what's right. You'll know when you meet God in your life, I suppose."

"Meanwhile you can try out what all of them teach, seek justice**…** peace**…** and love," Eve threw in.

The Sergeant nodded. "When in doubt I still prefer to trust people; I'd rather make the mistake on the side of trust than on the side of mistrust."

This conviction fitted the honest officer. What didn't fit him was his air of beating around the bush.

Ironside took a closer look at him. He now looked neat and tidy as usual, but his shoulders were hanging and he avoided eye contact.

"Brown, what's wrong?"

Ed made an effort to come out with what bothered him. "Sir, is it all right if I leave my gun and my badge with you?"

For a second Ironside was puzzled. "What in blazes would I need your gun and badge for?"

"Perhaps you haven't heard. I have been dismissed."

The Chief would not have been the Chief if he'd not caught immediately on what Brown was talking about.

"What dismissal?!" Ironside sounded so angry that his startled Sergeant took a step back.

"Lt. Greeves fired me."

"The only Greeves I know is a _sergeant_ who works in some one-horse town in San Bernardino County, since today, that is. He sure as hell has no responsibilities in San Francisco." He had seen to that when he had learned that Greeves had had all the information he needed to find him but wouldn't listen to Ed and Eve just because they were a pair of rookies. Now he was glad that he had done it. "You must have hallucinated. No wonder, considering your seedy life these days. Right, Miss Whitfield?"

Confused Ed looked at his colleague who had been present when he had been fired.

She nodded. "Yes, Ed, you must have been quite tired after working for days and nights on end."

Ironside knew that he had to make an effort this time – he didn't like pampering his people, but these two deserved a little compliment. "Thanks, you two. I owe you my life."

As he saw how embarrassed the two rookies looked, especially Brown, he added, "BUT next time you won't let yourself be stopped by some flaming superior! I'm glad that you went directly to the Commissioner, Eve. And for you, young man, it is about time that you started taking your own decisions!"

Ed looked relieved. This was the kind of criticism he could handle. Totally unexpectedly for him, his world seemed to fall back in place. Well, almost. His stomach had been tied up in knots since the Chief had vanished, and now it relaxed, with the result that it started to complain audibly. For days Ed had not spared a thought for food.

The Chief noticed it. Merrily he exclaimed, "That's our chance to have a good portion of chili together!"

Eve made a face.

Ed had to think about it for a moment. He tilted his head almost as Ironside liked to do, and slowly he said, "Sir, you know that I would do just about anything for you. I'd even eat your chili. But if 'start taking my own decisions' includes the choice of food, then I'd rather have a steak!"

* * *

_Thank you, Lemonpig, for your continued support, and thank you, all my readers and reviewers, for your interest!_


End file.
